


Joyride

by Kemmasandi



Series: Flags [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: AU setting, Mention of fisting, Other, Pillow Talk, Size Difference, Size Kink, Sticky Sex, Tactile Interfacing, Tribadism, misuse of system specs, the Autobots moved house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet welcomes Optimus back to base after a few days away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joyride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DexxxtroDNA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DexxxtroDNA/gifts).



> **Title:** Joyride  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Universe:** TF: Prime  
>  **Word Count:** 5821  
>  **Characters/Pairings:** Ratchet/Optimus Prime  
>  **Content Advisory:** Smut [sticky/tactile], robots scissoring [sort of], sizekinky goodness, fingering, mention of fisting, light D/s themes, dubious alien biology
> 
> * * *
> 
> The third of my holiday trade fics! :D I got it done juuuuust in time. 
> 
> This fits pretty well into my _Flags_ universe… setting to be explained in a fic I’ve got coming up, which was originally part of this fic but I decided to split them up and see how much I could make out of pure smut. XD Title is the fault of Window Media Player, which decided to play ‘Joyride’ by the Killers just as I was starting to write this. I feel like it’s illustratively appropriate. :B
> 
> Not exactly traditional D/s, but borrowing some ideas from it. It’s been way too long since I wrote pure OTP smut. Optimus 2.0 is a huge inspiration. :3

JOYRIDE

...

The room was darkened but far from gloomy.  Optimus pushed the door closed, cutting off the last wedge of light from the corridor and locking himself inside.

Oil lamps of human design glimmered from the surfaces on either side of the large, new berth. That the surfaces in question were the flattest sides of empty storage crates did little to tarnish the mood, nor did the bare rock-hewn walls which arched up into a vaulted, shadowy roof. The atmosphere was pleasantly cool, the constant background hum of an industrial air-conditioning unit keeping a steady flow of fresh air circling through the open space. The weight of a mountain pressed down on the edge of his sensors, but it felt benevolent, protective rather than oppressive. 

Optimus drew in a slow vent, advancing slowly upon the berth. His visual field kept coming back to the solidly-built white frame which occupied it.

Ratchet had his optics dimmed, a datapad in his hands.  His expression relaxed as he put it aside, his attention turning wholly onto Optimus.

“Do you like it?” he said, a roll of his shoulders indicating the entire room. “I thought we deserved a little time to ourselves.”

“Your design aesthetic is more romantic than I might have guessed,” Optimus said honestly. He turned a slow circle in the middle of the floor, drinking in the sight. The soft light was yellow and the bedrock was iron-tinted, and together they gave the whole room a warm red cast. Ratchet languished in the middle of a pool of white – where on Unicron’s Earth had he found a metalcloth sheet that pale? It almost made the crimson piping on his armour _glow_.

Ratchet laughed, and levered himself upright with a sly smile. “I was hoping it might have that effect.”

His laugh was short and somewhat hoarse, but its rarity gave it value. Optimus smiled at him, warm affection curling through his spark.

“Come here,” his mate said, curling his fingers towards his palm in an imperious gesture of ‘closer’.

Two quick strides brought Optimus to the side of the berth. He knelt, resting his hands on the frame.

Ratchet watched him, optics bright. “Come on up, Optimus,” he murmured.

Optimus did so promptly, clambering onto the berth and settling on his haunches, facing Ratchet. The mood changed; the fetters of everyday life dropping away. Optimus placed his duties and strength firmly in Ratchet’s hands, and the weight dropped from his shoulders.

The medic leaned back, bracing his servos against the berth and looking Optimus up and down. His EM field was vivid with desire, curling in languid indigo currents around his frame. Needy tendrils reached out to caress Optimus’ frame. They raised licks of fire where they touched him, making his vents quicken and his armor flare out, aroused and inviting. Optimus threw open his cooling fans, feeling like an eager first-timer all over again.

To be fair, it had been a while. He met Ratchet’s pleased smirk with an unselfconscious rev – his secondary power plant rather than his flight engines; those he’d save for later.

“I’d missed you,” Ratchet admitted. He shuffled backwards until his aft hit the pillows, drawing his legs up to his chest to give Optimus more room to maneuver. “Only three days, and I was counting the hours until you returned.”

“As was I,” Optimus agreed– although, he suspected, for markedly different reasons. Nevada had kept him so busy he had barely had the mental energy to spare a thought or two off-topic. He’d caught a handful of hours’ worth of recharge on the return flight, fortunately. He would have hated to waste Ratchet’s interior design efforts.

“I don’t doubt it.” Ratchet tilted his helm to the side and watched him with dimmed, smoky optics. “You’ve always been less inclined towards obscenity than me.”

Yes, very different reasons. Optimus chewed on his lower lip, holding back a smile.

Ratchet’s collar armour cast deep shadows around the base of his neck, the curve of the smooth cabling inviting. Optimus traced the line of his sensory data track with imaginary fingers, memory supplying the heady tremor of Ratchet’s frame beneath his hands, the heat and readiness in the electromagnetic field which wove around his fingers and tripped the tactile sensors in his servos until he felt like he’d bathed them in molten gold.

“How do you want me?” he asked, pitching his voice deliberately lower than usual.

A delighted shudder rippled through Ratchet’s field. He rose up onto his knees, flattening his palms against the lower edge of Optimus’ windshield. He traced the fittings with nimble medic’s fingers, pursing his lips in thought.

“I carried out some research while you were away,” he began, his optics narrowing, speaking slowly as if he hadn’t enough time to become fully familiar with the idea. He rubbed the central seam between Optimus’ thoracic armour plates, softly, thoughtfully. Slow heat marched through Optimus’ neural net at the contact. “I have a plan.”

He pushed insistently at Optimus’ chest. Understanding caught up a moment later, and Optimus went over backwards, lowering himself to the sheets.

He looked up at Ratchet, framed within the glow of the lamp and the red of the bedrock walls. Anticipation gripped his spark. Ratchet knelt over him, his optics blazing. The insides of his thighs brushed Optimus’ hips as he lifted one leg over Optimus’ chassis and straddled him.

Ratchet smoothed his servos over Optimus’ chest, the gentle pressure teasing.

Optimus’ entire system lit up, thrumming with charge. He lifted his hands to Ratchet’s frame but stopped short of touching, shaking with the effort of holding himself back.

“Good,” Ratchet hummed. He kept touching, toying with Optimus’ most sensitive parts, his EM field rippling and swirling around them. Forbidden to reciprocate, Optimus shut off his optics and groaned. He could feel the heat of Ratchet’s frame, the charge gathering beneath his armour. Ratchet leaned down over his chest, just close enough to brush their lips together, and the steady wanting throb of his spark through his chest nearly broke through Optimus’ self-control.

One last light suck at Optimus’ lower lip and Ratchet drew back, his vents washing hot over Optimus’ frame.

“Touch me,” he commanded.

Optimus vented hard, and laid hands upon his beloved mate.

His massive servos almost swallowed Ratchet’s thighs. He stroked the inner transformation seams with his thumbs, wide sweeping arcs that made Ratchet’s tension cables draw tight at the joint of thigh and groin and his EM field ripple out around his frame with unbridled pleasure. Ratchet palmed the armour plates at Optimus’ upper abdominal boundary, subtly rocking forward into his hands.

Between his legs, his physical interface array roared to life. Optimus denied both panels permission to open, his helm falling back as slow heat gathered low in his abdomen and his tactile center was suddenly swamped under a cascade of vivid sensory data. The texture and pressure of Ratchet’s frame against his, neural net burning where they touched each other. Temperature; the heat coming through Ratchet’s armour and the warm wash of his ventral exhaust over Optimus’ sides and forearms. He shifted his grip to Ratchet’s waist, pressing down. Ratchet arched in his hands, the flex and pull of his armour fascinating in an immediately physical sort of way. 

Optimus realised that they were both panting, primary vents and cooling fans whirring underneath the soft clanks and metallic grinding of their armour where their bodies met. Ratchet’s mouth was half-open, his secondary intakes working hard. His mouth glistened, his glossa regularly flicking out to wet his lips. His optics were half-shuttered but they glowed intensely behind it, the uninhibited desire in them as he gazed down at Optimus intense and wonderful. Optimus caught himself wondering what he’d done to deserve such an incredible mech’s interest.

Ratchet caught him looking, and smiled. There was a beat, and then he raised himself up, and a smooth mechanical click signalled the opening of his interface array.

The slick, clean scent of Ratchet’s internal lubricant was suddenly everywhere. He was wet – very wet, liquid arousal dripping out of him and rolling in steady trails down his thighs. Optimus raised a bold hand and rubbed his index digit through it, smearing the liquid over inner surface of Ratchet’s thigh. Ratchet dropped his helm and watched, making a low, approving hum as he did the same thing with the other leg. His spike rapidly pressurized. Optimus wanted so badly to touch it. He resisted the urge, keeping his ministrations to the parts of Ratchet’s body which he had been authorized to touch.

Ratchet made an approving click. He lowered himself to Optimus’ frame again, and the sensation of his valve, trickling lubricant and swollen external folds, against Optimus’ plating had him wrestling down an ecstatic arch of his backstruts.

“Lift up your knees,” he ordered.

Optimus obeyed quickly. Ratchet glanced over his shoulder, giving them a calculating look. Optimus shuffled them apart at his request, warmth rippling through his neural net at Ratchet’s guiding touch.

The medic braced himself on Optimus’ raised knees and slid backwards until his wet valve reached Optimus’ closed array panel. He held himself there for a moment and rolled his hips, wickedly rubbing his external components against the heated metal. Optimus shuttered his optics and gritted his dente, enduring the burst of overheat warnings and the deluge of sensory data, pressure and heat and the maddening liquid slide of Ratchet’s dripping-wet and very ready external components over the thin cover.

For the first time since he’d woken transformed by the Forge of Solus Prime, Optimus wanted to release his spike, to trap Ratchet beneath him and sink into his tight heat. He groaned at the thought, the tactile memory of calipers fluttering spasmodically around him, the cable walls of Ratchet’s valve gripping him tight, charge nodes flashing off bursts of lightning sensation as they brushed up against the matching trigger nodes on him. Wanted to feel Ratchet writhe and arch against him, wrap his legs around Optimus’ waist and hold on for dear life, holding Optimus deep inside him as they both overloaded within seconds of each other.

By the look on Ratchet’s face, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

He’d seen the size of that spike, though. Massive – monstrous, even. Very much befitting Optimus’ frame. They’d mutually decided to be careful around it. Thus far, this had been easy to do so – six months of Unit E had reduced them to celibacy, privacy within the hangar being non-existent.

Now that the privacy to indulge themselves in a little R-rated fun was no longer a thing of fantasy, Optimus found himself rather apprehensive of using it.

“I know what you’re thinking, and you need to stop it,” Ratchet said, pausing in his ministrations. “Open your panel.”

Automatically Optimus slid open his valve array.

Ratchet slid a hand between their frames and petted his slick, swollen folds with an indulgent smile. Sensory clusters fired, cool metal and the firm, rhythmic touch sending throbs of pleasure through his neural tracks.

“That is a good start, but I meant both of them.”

Optimus frowned at him and came dangerously close to disobedience. He caught himself just short; swallowed a lurch of sudden self-consciousness, and retracted his spike panel, giving the mechanism permission to pressurize.

Ratchet’s expression very carefully did not change.

“Somehow, it looks bigger than it is,” he murmured. His field flushed with heat – hesitant, and yet very, very aroused.

Optimus did not get the chance to ask what he meant by that. Ratchet reached down and wrapped both servos around the shaft, tracing the ridges and overlapped plates on the underside with a cartographer’s intent. Both thumbs touched, the first two joints of his longest digits overlapping on the other side. He slid his hands to the flared head and rubbed his thumbs over the injector tip. Optimus let his helm fall back against the berth and groaned helplessly. He had to lock his joints in place, not trusting his willpower to keep him from bucking up into Ratchet’s hands.

“I have an important question for you, Optimus,” Ratchet continued, stroking and caressing the massive spike. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Optimus said. It came out a desperate rumble, reverberating through the mechanisms deep in his chest. Something in the tone of the question caught his attention. He narrowed his optics, staring through the data overflow at Ratchet. Why?

“Enough to indulge me in trying something which may or may not work? In spectacular fashion?”

He lifted his helm. The light of an idea was in Ratchet’s optics. _In spectacular fashion_ echoed through his helm.

“Yes,” he said, again.

“Good,” Ratchet said. “Hold me.”

The medic’s hands left Optimus’ spike. They settled on his thighs, a point of balance as he leaned further and further backwards. Lubricant caught the light as it dripped down the insides of his thighs. He rested his weight fully upon Optimus’ thighs and reorganized his own legs, draping them over the joints of Optimus’ hips. Optimus gripped his upper thighs and instinctually guided him down.

The soft folds of Ratchet’s valve brushed up against the underside of Optimus’ spike. Ratchet made a soft, low groan as he fitted himself between Optimus’ legs and canted his hips _forward_ —

Wetness and heat, and wonderful aching pressure. The sensation as their external valve components met and pressed against each other was something entirely different to anything Optimus had felt before. He shuttered his optics and a groan tore itself from deep in his chest; his wingtips rattled against the berth and his servos clamped tight around Ratchet’s thighs, locking them together. Ratchet twisted in his grip and their components slid against each other. A small hand wrapped around his spike and rubbed lazily, lubricating the caresses with their own fluids.

“I’d always wanted to do this,” Ratchet commented, his voice halting and his expression one of fierce concentration. Damp heat rolled off his field, drowning Optimus in physical need. “It would have been awkward before – too much leg, ah – but while you were away I wondered if the size difference between us now mightn’t be something of an advantage.”

Optimus reached behind him and slid his hand around the smooth curve of Ratchet’s lower back, bending him forward. Ratchet’s anterior node cluster nudged up against Optimus’ heavily-ridged spike housing and the spasming throb that went through his external components at the contact was tantalisingly recognizable. Ratchet screwed his optics shut and gave a sharp, gasping cry which cut itself off abruptly.

“Oh,” he said, shuddering and bracing himself against Optimus’ abdominal armour. “Do— do that again.”

Optimus repeated the action, lifting his hips up hard into Ratchet’s. Ratchet rode it instinctually, giving that same sharp vocalisation at the peak of the movement. As Optimus came down, he straightened and rocked downwards, the soft, giving press of his external folds stimulating Optimus’ own anterior cluster. Optimus groaned and his primary engines wound into a higher gear, revving _hard_. His interface array, primed and sensitive, picked them up. He squeezed Ratchet’s hips hard enough to leave dents and arched up into a minor sensory overload.

Ratchet had enough presence of mind left to hold him through it, stroking his sides until his armour opened wide enough to allow him to bury his fingers in the wiring beneath Optimus’ surface plating and stimulate his neural net directly. He rode the small erratic lurches of his hips, adjusting for the inevitable gush of lubricant and keeping their valves aligned in intimate mimicry of the tenderest of kisses.

“I will be kind and refrain from counting that as a proper overload,” he said, smiling. “They’re not very satisfying, are they.”

He was entirely right. Every line of Optimus’ frame thrummed with energy. The sensory overload had tripped his tactile center without triggering an accompanying electrical release. He felt as though there was a storm within his chest and a foundry fire burning between his legs, a strange knot of tightness near the surface where their frames pressed together. The heat of Ratchet’s components matched his so completely that his bewildered tactile protocols couldn’t make out the point where he ended and Ratchet began.

“No,” he agreed, shuttering his optics and resting his helm back against the end of the berth, recording the tactile data for the next time Ratchet had a night shift and he felt lonely in the berth.

Ratchet made one last languid grind against him and lifted himself away. “I knew I missed foreplay for a reason.”

Optimus cracked one optic open and watched his much smaller mate crawl up his chassis. The breadth of his chest posed a barrier neither of them were quite sure how to deal with yet. After a moment of thought, Ratchet settled for straddling his waist and lying forward over his thoracic plates. They kissed, and Optimus was aware in the back of his mind of the slow, steady drip of Ratchet’s lubricant onto his plating.

He cupped Ratchet’s aft in his hands, his digits barely inches from his mate’s bared entrance. He could feel the heat, almost taste the charge on Ratchet’s glossa. Their mouths connected, the grind of microplating and the slick taste of each other, biting and sucking, Ratchet’s glossa sliding into him –

He’d always been conscious of personal boundaries, and somewhere along the rocky, potholed road of his various romantic entanglements this had translated into a penetration kink. The idea of taking parts of someone else’s body into his, of being willingly taken into that someone else’s body, made his spark quicken and his engine skip gears like nothing else.

Without breaking the kiss, Ratchet reached behind himself, scrabbling for Optimus’ wrist. He found it, and shoved the attached servo between his legs.

Orders were not always verbal. This one was as clear as Optimus’ windshield glass.

He explored Ratchet’s contours at length, wary of the size of his digits. Experience recalled that Ratchet was quick to produce lubricant, yet slow to relax inside. Optimus stroked his array from spike housing to the rear terminus of his panel with the pads of his first two digits, teasing between the puffed and slickened primary folds at the entrance ring of his valve. It twitched open – ready and willing.

Ratchet moaned into his mouth. “Primus. That’s good, Optimus.” He sealed his lips together and swallowed the next involuntary noise, the platelets around his optics drawing tight with the effort at self-control. “One finger, in me.”

Optimus vented deeply. He adjusted his hold on Ratchet, rubbing the tip of his middle digit back and forth over the medic’s anterior cluster a few times before he drew it upwards and pressed it slowly into Ratchet’s valve.

His fingers were a lot bigger than they’d once been. Even so, Ratchet slid open around him like a dream, the needy contractions of his cable walls taking him deeper. The medic groaned, deep and throaty, whispering his name. Optimus’ spike strained, wanting him so badly.

He shuttered his optics, opening them and burying his digit to the knuckle inside Ratchet. That was not what he’d expected or feared.

“Have I missed something?” he asked, purposefully vaguely. Ratchet’s valve pulsed delightfully around him. He withdrew the digit and pushed it back in, more forcefully this time.

“You could say that,” Ratchet replied, closing his optics and pressing his forehelm against Optimus’. “Two fingers.”

Optimus frowned apprehensively, but slid his third digit in alongside the middle on the next inward thrust. Ratchet shuddered against him, but again, there was no resistance. Optimus made several rapid shallow thrusts and curled his digits back against the rear wall. Ratchet had a set of rather interesting nodes there somewhere, if he could just _find_ them.

Ratchet laughed huskily, lifting his hips and angling them downward. Optimus’ fingertips fetched up against a hidden set of nodes. Charge ripped through Optimus’ hand and travelled up his arm, making him twitch and jerk. Ratchet gave voice to a short, static-roughened scream.

“I _have_ missed something,” Optimus murmured, tilting his face up against Ratchet’s. Harsh vents washed over his cheeks.

“As I said, I’ve done a little research,” Ratchet managed, between huffs. “Carried out some experiments while you were absent. I had to keep myself occupied _somehow._ ”

“What sort of experiments?” Optimus withdrew his fingers with an obscene wet schlepping of lubricant. Ratchet lifted his helm and made a face at him.

“Well, now that we have a proper base once again, I started from the assumption that privacy would lead to the resumption of the more physical aspects of our relationship. However, you seem to be unusually nervous over the assumption of any sort of traditionally dominant role, up to and including the possibility of penetrating me. Having seen the size of that spike of yours, I can’t say I don’t see why. Therefore, I did a little digging around in your code blueprint, and from that I was able to come up with a rough estimate of your dimensions.

“As it happens, they _do_ fall within the upper limit of my specs for internal capacity – both in length and girth.”

He watched as Optimus’ optics widened, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve spent the last three nights running field tests, as it were.”

“Well,” Optimus began, once the immediate surprise – and the intrusive visuals of Ratchet carrying out said tests – had been banished from his processor. “I applaud your foresight and practical thinking. Are you sure?”

“Ninety-eight point six percent, with a margin for error of one percent on either side.” Ratchet tapped one finger against his collar strut. “In the meanwhile, you have forgotten something. Three fingers.”

Right. Yes, he had.

He returned his attentions to Ratchet’s valve. Three fingers would give a girth comparative to the width of his old spike. He spread Ratchet’s folds apart and brushed a light, tickling touch around the rim of his entrance before pressing inward.

“If I might ask, how did you carry out the physical tests?” he asked. This time there was a slight feeling of resistance inside Ratchet. He spread the tips of his fingers apart and gave a few shallow thrusts.

“Washracks,” Ratchet grunted shortly, when he regained the ability to speak. “I went in at midnight, locked the door – _hnngh_ – and, well, tried to see how far I’d stretch.”

“And the results?” The mental image of Ratchet crouching among the solvent spray, legs spread and fingers thrusting up into his own valve, took over Optimus’ HUD.

“Inconclusive.” Ratchet squirmed, arching against Optimus’ chest and pressing his valve up onto Optimus’ fingers. “I ran out of servo, and I needed the other one to make notes.”

Optimus’ spark throbbed. “Primus.”

“Yes,” Ratchet groaned. “Four fingers, Optimus. Then we’ll see if this is realistic or not.”

“Primus,” Optimus repeated.

He added the fourth, and this time it was a stretch. Ratchet made a nearly subsonic groan as his calipers struggled to draw open further. Optimus watched him closely for any sign that he was being pushed too far or too fast. Ratchet made no move to stop him; he lay flat over Optimus’ chest, clutching at his shoulders, optics shuttered tight and his mouth gaping open, auxiliary intakes working hard. His cable walls contracted and relaxed spasmodically, his calipers fluttering, and _slag_ , Optimus wanted to feel that around his spike. He pushed his fingers in as far as the knuckles and gave Ratchet a few minutes to adjust, before gently, slowly pulling out and rocking back inside him again.

Ratchet made a noise that was almost a sob, a deep, choking vent inwards and a low, hoarse groan. His EM field whipped and writhed in the atmosphere around him, made huge with the charge flowing through his frustrated frame. As his internals slowly eased open he pushed back against Optimus’ hand, twisting and blindly seeking out angles with which to bleed off charge.

Internally he seemed to come to a tipping point. His servos scrabbled at Optimus’ chest, his optics cracking open. “Out, out!”    

Optimus removed his fingers quickly, thinking he’d hurt him. Instead, Ratchet lay still over him for a long moment, venting deeply and regaining his strength. He pushed at Optimus’ chest again, and Optimus realised that he was trying to sit up.

He tipped Ratchet upright, steadying him when the pressure of his own weight on his oversensitised valve components made him arch and threatened to tip him over backwards. Ratchet hung his helm and let Optimus hold him, bracing his hands on Optimus’ shoulders.

Eventually he met Optimus’ concerned gaze. “I’m fine. I just… _Primus._ If we’d kept going I’d have overloaded. It might have helped, but, ah, I wanted to overload with you in me. Your spike, I mean.”

Optimus tried to muster up a response to that, but his engine beat him to it, revving sharply.

Ratchet shot him a quick smile. “Well. I don’t want to press you if you’re still nervous, but – shall we try?”

Optimus gave it a moment’s thought, but his higher processors were entirely muddled with charge, and base coding was driving. He _wanted_ it, so much, so hard, and if Ratchet wanted it too, then here and now he saw no objection to trying.

He nodded, managing a croaked “Yes.”

Ratchet gathered himself and shuffled backwards until Optimus felt his aft against the upper side of his spike. He raised himself onto his knees with great effort, angling his hips and finding a position where the heat of his valve hovered tantalisingly just over the head of Optimus’ spike.

“Hands by your sides,” Ratchet ordered.

He waited until Optimus had obeyed, dente gritted and fists clenched against the surface of the berth so hard the joints flashed yellow stress notifications – then began to lower himself onto Optimus’ spike.

Optimus’ self-control creaked like a living thing. Base coding went to war with his struts. He wanted, he _needed_ to push up into Ratchet, into the tight, wet, wonderful heat that sank slowly down around him. But behind it, he could sense the way Ratchet’s internal components strained to take him, the fixed vicelike grip of a valve stretched almost beyond its limits. To give in to his instincts now would be to risk causing Ratchet serious injury – and that, he _would_ _not risk._

He held himself so still, concentrating so hard on keeping his self-control, that when something gave and the first few segments of his spike slipped suddenly inside Ratchet it took him by surprise. He made a wordless cry, digging his fingers into the berth mesh. “Ratchet, _oh Primus, Ratchet_ —” he cut himself off, muting his vocaliser, but within seconds Ratchet had taken another few inches of spike within himself and it was back on again, crying out Ratchet’s name again and again. He offlined his optics, but the lack of visual data made the tactile sensation of his spike slowly being engulfed by the heat and pressure and charge inside Ratchet almost too intense to bear. He fled back to the visual world, and his attention was swallowed by the sight of the last few sections of his length disappearing into Ratchet’s valve.

They stopped like that for a long moment, frozen in time. The whine of overstressed cooling fans filled the room, the rumbling roar of Optimus’ flight engines thundering away beneath it.

Ratchet sat statuelike, his optics drawn tightly shut and his lips parted, barely moving. His EM field was vivid and euphoric, reflecting pleasure so strong it was almost on the verge of pain. His hands slowly rose, pressing to his lower abdomen. His spike was hard and a thin ribbon of prefluid welled from the injector tip, running down the length to join the fluids at the point where they were joined.

 _Filled so tightly even the transfluids won’t_ _be able to escape_ , thought Optimus. His mouth was dry, his scorching vents robbing the moisture from his glossa. He couldn’t find the code to shut his auxiliary vents down so that he could swallow.

Ratchet broke the silence with a staticky croak. “I’m going to overload. If I move at all, I’m going to go over.”

Optimus lifted his hands – slowly, so carefully – to Ratchet’s own, pressed hard against his belly as though he could feel the swell of Optimus’ spike through the layers of armour and protomass and internal structures. “Primus,” he gasped, his servos sliding to Ratchet’s sides. “ _Please!_ ”

Ratchet met his optics, and nodded.

Optimus _lifted_ him with thoughtless ease and brought him crashing back down. Ratchet was gone before he’d come halfway, tipping over the edge with a wail that erupted from his vocaliser and spiralled up into desperate binary stutters. Only Optimus’ hands on his hips kept him upright as he shuddered violently, EM field exploding in a surge of pure energy. Base coding brought Optimus up off the berth, catching Ratchet’s upper half as he slumped. He hung on the precipice of overload for agonising moments, thrusting up into Ratchet with all physical restraint gone, one, twice, three and four times.

He overloaded on the fifth, a stellar burst of electricity ripping through his neural net. His spark drew tight and exploded outwards, his processor creaking under the load. His frame curled up and over Ratchet, arms wrapping around him, holding them together as his spike discharged transfluid and current into Ratchet, on the edge of his overwhelmed senses conscious of the exhausted caress of a small hand over the central seam where his thoracic plating split to reveal his spark—

Darkness tumbled in over his helm as his visual centres cut off. A moment later, he dropped into oblivion.

He rebooted several minutes later.

Ratchet was lying on his chest, right where they’d left off. Optimus thought he was still in shutdown at first, until a warm wet glossa licked a swathe of his windshield clean.

“Ugh,” Ratchet said, sticking out his glossa and scraping away the taste. “You didn’t go to the washracks first?”

“I felt certain I would have fallen asleep before I got to you,” said Optimus, apologetically. His vocaliser glitched halfway through and the final word was near-incomprehensible with static. He ran through the reboot-generated diagnostics report before he attempted to move, counting the aches. He had not had an overload like that in a long time.

Ratchet propped himself up on his elbows and gave him a quick, chaste kiss. “You were out for a while. I was starting to worry. How are your system reports?”

“Fine, for the most part.” Optimus lifted his helm in an attempt to peek over Ratchet’s shoulder. His spike had depressurised itself as he’d come back online. It ached, neural net overstimulated and electrical exchange circuits burnt out. With any luck, his self-repair should fix the damage within a couple of days, saving him the need to embarrass the medbay with his presence. (Old habits died hard, and even several hundred vorn of being mated to Ratchet had not entirely stripped him of the firm belief that what happened in the berth should stay in the berth. That his mate was also his medic was only somewhat of a relief; Ratchet had far fewer qualms regarding interfacing than he.)

Ratchet levered himself up and slid off Optimus’ frame. He hauled himself to the side of the berth, and he’d obviously had time enough to clean himself up while Optimus was offline, because the only evidence of their coupling left on his frame were the paint transfers and surface scratches on the insides of his thighs and a matching set of vaguely servo-shaped dents on either side of his hips.

Optimus looked at his hands. Both bore telltale grey-and-orange scrapes.

“Are you well?” he asked.

Ratchet leaned over the edge of the berth, tugging something out from a shaded nook by the wall. “I’m fine, Optimus. I told you I had the specs.”

“You are not hurt? No aches?”

The thing resolved itself into a chest freezer, the lid flipping open. “Of course I’m aching; I just had something wider around than my fist shoved into me,” Ratchet snarked lightly, and Optimus winced at the barefaced description. “I’m not damaged, though. Trust me, you do not need to worry yourself. Let me take care of _you_ for once.”

Optimus drew in a deep vent, and let go of the tight hold he had on himself. His EM field spread out across the berth, seeking Ratchet’s. “Very well.”

“Here,” Ratchet said, turning back to him with a cube of chilled energon in each servo. He made a wry smile and glanced away. “June and I found a good deal on second-hand freezers. Given the size of this place, I felt as though it might be a worthwhile investment.”

Optimus took the offered cube with a grateful press of his field. He propped himself up on one elbow and managed to pop the lid off one-handed, always a notable achievement when one was half-dazed with afterglow. The energon smelled like ambrosia to his chemoreceptors. He drank, draining half the cube in one deep swallow.

It was cold, but not uncomfortably so, bringing his higher sensory processors online with a burst of refreshing flavour. There was a sweet aftertaste, as of solar-refined highgrade. He found himself licking his lips like a sparkling, unused to such high-quality fuel. His main tank, which had been dropping steadily towards the red zone at 46.4%, stopped sending him low fuel warnings.

“Where did this come from?” Optimus asked, regarding the remaining energon. To drink it now or to savour the taste, that was the question…

Ratchet pressed up close to his side, warm and relaxed. “Ultra Magnus suggested Wheeljack might attempt to make use of our isolated location to set up a better refinery. It might have been the first such to be followed without a single complaint.”

“I wasn’t aware Wheeljack had such talent with energon refinery.”

“Well, according to Bulkhead he used to be the Wreckers’ primary source of moonshine highgrade and other alternative fuels. His pre-enlistment record includes a half-finished course in fairly high-level molecular chemistry.”

Having weighed up the options and come to a decision, Optimus drained the cube. “Perhaps you should request his assistance in looking after our energon supplies. We should make use of talent where it arises, and it would spare you a little more work.”

Ratchet closely regarded his own cube. “Perhaps,” he allowed after a minute’s thought. “Would you like a refill?”

Optimus made as if to refuse –they were not self-sufficient yet, not by a long shot – but his tanks hijacked the impulse somewhere around the level of his vocaliser and what came out instead was a sparkfelt “Yes, please.”

Ratchet snickered, and hauled himself back over to the freezer.

**Author's Note:**

> I will bet you ten trillion jungle bucks that Miko called Optimus 2.0’s servos yaoi hands at least once.


End file.
